


Eye'm a Bitch, Eye'm a Lover

by A_Hundred_Jewels



Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan
Genre: Eyes, Prompt Fic, Sort Of, Yeet yeet, brief mention of a swastika, brief mentions of fierrochase, brief mentions of transphobia - Freeform, brief thoughts of self harm, does that count?, if you don't like eyes then maybe don't read this, im going heavy on the tags since its quarentine and i think everyones feeling a bit off, im having too much fun with the tags, my first time writing with a prompt, oh wait also, ok im done, she says she wants to punch herself, sorry - Freeform, this is an extremely uneventful fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Hundred_Jewels/pseuds/A_Hundred_Jewels
Summary: Prompt: EyesAlex's relationship with her eyes is tested one day by a stranger's ignorant comment.TW: very brief mention of transphobia towards the beginning and also of wanting to punch oneself.Also, yes I know that the title is absolute trash.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: snazzilton fanfic bingo 2020





	Eye'm a Bitch, Eye'm a Lover

**Author's Note:**

> PART ONE of my contribution to the first ever Snazzilton Fanfic Bingo event of 2020!! (For context, one of my friends found a "fanfiction prompt bingo" chart on tumblr. I'm so sorry not to credit it's original creator, but I don't know who that is. Anyway, we decided to make it a challenge among the three of us. Five prompts. Five one-shots. All to be completed by the Monday after next). 
> 
> Yes, as I said in the summary, I am fully aware that this is a terrible title. IN MY DEFENSE, I've started listening to "Bitch" (by Meredith Brooks) quite a lot since one of my other friends got me into the Cruel Intentions musical. (Lauren Zakrin is Katheryn!!!!!!!! And she has this awesome medley towards the end). Anyway, I wanted to do a pun, for some unimaginable reason, and thus this title was born. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Alex. Unfortunately. Rick Riordan does. Yay.

Shame is my least favourite emotion.

It’s even worse when other people make me feel it. 

I like to think that I’m immune to everything. That every ignorant piece of shit I encounter on the street has nothing on me. That I’m invincible. 

Usually when I get a rude comment or a funny look on the street, it’ll be because I’m wearing a skirt or eyeshadow or something (because people suck). One time a store clerk even told me I “must be shady” because of my hair. I wasn’t even sure if they meant the color or the style, since Magnus and I had given each other fauxhawks that day. (Oh my god, they were sooo bad). These are all things I can deal with. Those comments fill me with hate, but at least the hate is directed towards the people saying them, and not at me. They’re just comments. The only problem is that I don’t react well to being taken by surprise. And after a lifetime dealing with other people’s stupidity, I had begun to think that I’d heard everything. 

So you can imagine how I felt when, on my way back to Valhalla from getting coffee with Sam, a tall guy wearing an Adidas tee shirt turned to me and “Dude, what the fuck is up with your eyes?”

Somehow, that was the first time anyone had ever commented on my eyes. Aside from Magnus, who told me they’re cool and who Mallory told me wants to get a purple contact lens for his left eye so we can match. Why he chose purple is beyond me. Do they even make purple contacts? 

I was taken aback enough that I didn’t say anything, just gave the guy a look of bewilderment. He shrugged and turned away, carrying a large skateboard. While watching him walk away, I noticed a big swastika sticker next to the skateboard’s wheels. I glared at it. I used to skateboard. It should be illegal for skateboarders to be assholes. 

I bet I’m a better skater than that guy. 

I turn around and keep walking back to Valhalla. There’s no point in agonizing over some stranger’s remark about my eyes. They’re eyes. Good eyes. I’ve never even had glasses. 

The day feels different, though. 

I find myself staring at the eyes of everyone I pass, earning myself some odd looks. I barely even notice. Everyone’s eyes look the same. Blue. Green. Brown. Two of the same color per person. 

So I don’t look like anyone. 

I guess I already knew that. No surprise there. So why should I suddenly feel alone?

When I get back to Valhalla, I go straight to my room, singing “The Way You Look Tonight” in Norse. It’s been playing almost nonstop in the elevator this week. Yesterday, one of the Erics stabbed me for belting the chorus too loud as we rode down to the lobby. 

I mean. I have a terrible voice.

I unlock the door and make a beeline to my bathroom, barely stopping to shut the door and throw my jacket on the floor. 

The bathroom door bangs against the wall as I fling it open. I turn on the tap and stick my head in the sink, letting the freezing water cover my head. It runs into my mouth and I sputter, then pull my head out of the sink and stare into the mirror. 

My reflection looks back at me with its stupid eyes. One brown, one amber. They’re hardly the weirdest thing about me, especially now, with my dripping green hair and the septum piercing I got two weeks ago. (Mallory did it for me. I only passed out once). (Okay, twice). 

I want to punch my reflection. Watch my little nose bleed and my different colored eyes water from the pain. 

This is stupid. 

I turn away from the mirror and slide against the cabinet to the floor. Through the door I can see my bucket of paints. I haven’t used them in a while. Unless I’m painting pottery they go pretty much untouched. I bet I haven’t even opened some of the bottles. I crawl out of the bathroom to the bucket, pausing only to pull off my boots and go barefoot.

I turn it over and dump everything out onto the floor, then spread it out so that everything surrounds me. The sound of paintbrushes and tubes of paint scraping across the floor echoes throughout the room. Aside from that, it’s silent. Too silent. It’s creepy. 

Groaning, I get up and dig out my mp3 player from under my pillow. For a second, I can’t remember where I left my speaker. I turn into a flamingo and fly around my room, looking for it. (That tends to be why my room’s a mess. I turn into a flamingo whenever I want to find something and end up making everything fall on the floor. I like it better that way). 

When I find it, my speaker is balanced on one of the rafters in the ceiling. How it got there, I honestly don’t remember. Sometimes, things are just mysteries. I grab it with my feet and set it down on the floor. 

Soon, I’m a human again and “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks is playing loudly. Water trickles down my back as I sit in the center of my paint bottles, soaking my long-sleeved green For a moment I’m still.

(That never lasts long).

After I’ve taken a moment to let the music flow through me, I pick up a bottle of brown paint and squirt it onto a palette. I mix it with a little bit of yellow and a little orange. 

Slowly, I walk over to the bathroom and turn on the light. In the mirror, my amber eye eye glows back at me. 

I glare at it, but pick up my palette from where I’d set on the sink. Holding it next to my face, comparing the color I’ve created to that of my eye. I squint and add more brown. 

It’s close enough. 

I enter the room again, carrying a palette heavy with amber paint. As Meredith Brooks sings the chorus, I cross to one of the room’s white, bare walls, humming tunelessly along. 

I’m a bitch, I’m a lover. I’m a child, I’m a mother. 

I wonder why I don’t paint more often. I should. It’s nice, the feeling of my brush on the wall. When I paint my pottery, I rarely do more than simple designs. I like making things that can speak for themselves. 

At first, my circle is a bit lopsided. I fill it out, but it still looks a bit strange. And the black center is too big. I don’t care. I outline it and add the eye lashes and make another one.

Another one another one another one. Some are amber. Some are brown. The ones around my bed are pink and green. 

I’m a sinner, I’m a saint. 

I turn into a flamingo and hold the brush in my beak to sloppily paint some more on the higher sections of the wall, where I can’t just stack a bunch of chairs on top of each other to reach. 

Soon, I’m a human lying on my floor, covered in paint, under watchful eyes of my own creation. It’s either terrifying or comforting. I’ll find out when I go to sleep tonight. 

I pull out my phone and take a selfie so I can see how much paint is actually on me, without having to get up and do the whole bathroom-mirror thing. With a snort, I zoom in on the picture to examine my face. 

I have the bad habit of wiping my face with my sleeve. I also have the bad habit of spilling things on my sleeve. Right now, both my face and my sleeves look like they narrowly survived a battle with Jackson Pollock. 

There’s pink on my nose and orange on my cheek and brown in my hair and yellow and amber and green and blue. 

Who cares if my eyes are different colors? I’m so much more interesting and colorful. And stupid. 

And I do not feel ashamed. 

(Magnus is going to shit himself when he sees all the eyes).

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!! PLEASE leave a comment if you enjoyed this. INFORM ME OF YOUR THOUGHTS! Like I said, at the beginning, Part Two is coming soon!


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